Fairytale of Boston
by Tigerwalk
Summary: This fic is part of the Richonne Writing Network 2018 Holiday Series. Make sure you check out all of the days!


A/N Hi everyone. This fic is part of the Richonne Writing Network 2018 Holiday Series. Please make sure to check out all of the days!

I wrote this to the Song Fairytale of New York, which Andy sang on stage with Jethro Tull a few years ago. If you haven't seen the video, look it up on youtube. You can't see him, but it's still my fav thing ever. I borrowed some of the lyrics from the song, and I changed it to Boston because booo New York :)

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The snow was up to his ankles as Rick trudged down the cobblestoned street, lined with evergreen swag, gas lamps, and stumbling, lonely old men. He supposed he was one of them, given the date and his destination. Though he wasn't quite stumbling yet.

He squinted against the cold wind and icy precipitation, spotting the neon sign ahead. He could already hear the Irish music bursting from the seams of the old brick-faced dive. At this hour on Christmas Eve, it was probably filled to the brim with dedicated alcoholics, people whose families lived too far to travel to, and blue collar workers who hadn't had a holiday off in years.

He pulled his Boston PD windbreaker up over his chin and rubbed his hands together as he pushed the last few steps against the storm. He'd just finished a twelve-hour shift and was looking forward to warming his bones with a few shots of something hard.

" _Come policeman all of Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too…"_

Rick heard a raspy, slurred brogue crooning from the steps of a brownstone and he slowed to get a better look. A withered old man in a watchman's cap and battered pea coat waved a metal mug in his direction, shaking it to accompany his tune with the few coins it held.

"… _Oh, we'll give them the slip and we'll all take a sip of the rare old Mountain Dew."_

"That song for me?" Rick asked, glancing down at his uniform.

"You're a policeman, ain't ya?"

"I am."

"You on duty?"

"No, sir."

He pulled a litre bottle out of his coat and took a swig. "Well, then come keep an old man company and I'll share my… ah… coffee."

Rick shook his head. He could smell the whiskey on this guy from three feet away, but hell, it was Christmas and he wasn't on duty. He could let a little public sorrow-drowning slide.

"What's that song you're singing?" Rick asked as he took a seat on the icy concrete step.

" _Rare Old Mountain Dew_. You know it?"

"It sounds familiar."

"You hang around these Irish bars enough, you've heard it."

"I haven't been in awhile actually. Just had a feeling it might be a good place to be tonight. For lack of better options."

"And why is it you've got a lack of better options? Young, handsome fella like yourself."

"Long story."

The old man cackled, holding his arm around his belly and shaking like Santa Claus himself, but thinner. "Lucky for you, I ain't got nowhere to be." Rick felt the corners of his mouth turn up for what seemed like the first time in months. "Come on, boy." His laughing turned into a fitful cough that rattled through his bony frame. "It's Christmas and frankly, I'm not likely to see another one. So if I'm gonna spend it with the likes of you, you're sure as hell gonna tell me your sorry story."

Rick raised an eyebrow at the man, wondering why it was he was sitting there getting pelted with ice instead of on a warm stool at the tavern a few doors down. But he'd already sat down, and if the old man was looking for a story, boy did he pick the right guy to flag down.

"I met a girl here once," he said, motioning for the bottle and taking a fiery sip. "On Christmas Eve."

 _Three years ago..._

"Grimes! Over here."

Rick craned his neck over the wall of drunken swaying, and caught sight of Captain Ford waving furiously from the bar. He shouldered his way through the people standing arm-in-arm and belting out festive folk songs, until he was pressed against the oak and brass. Ford pushed a pint glass into his chest and his partner, Daryl Dixon, slapped him hard on the shoulder, causing him to spill the brown ale all over the front of his uniform. He shook the booze from his hand and took a large swig.

"You weren't lying about not having to drink alone," Rick said, nodding toward the crowd.

"Yeah, well, Midnight Mass ain't everyone's thing. 'Sides, these guys don't take a night off for nobody. Not even baby J.C. Merry Christmas, buddy."

He raised his glass to the captain's. "Merry Christmas."

Rick scanned the dance floor, wide pine planks stained with a hundred years worth of spirits. There was a rag tag looking band on the stage singing songs everyone seemed to know the words to. There was also some sort of stomp and clap accompaniment that the whole room was participating in and he watched the performance in awe.

A portly man with yellow teeth and red hair was spitting into the microphone while the others strummed away on dueling fiddles. " _But give me enough of that rare old stuff that's brewed near Galway Bay!"_

The crowd replied with a resounding "Hey!" and Rick shook his head in amusement.

Boston was a million miles away from the little Georgia town he hailed from. He'd put in for a transfer to the furthest department he could when his high school sweetheart-turned-fiance had cheated on him with his old partner. His father had passed six months after that and, in what felt like divine intervention, his transfer had been approved the day after the funeral.

He was lucky enough to have fallen in with some of the local guys who insisted he not spend his first Christmas in the Northeast eating alone in his one bedroom apartment, and here he was, drinking and singing shanties in a drafty old bar like a character from a Dickens novel.

He smiled to himself, letting the Ghost of Christmas Present tip his glass back until he had drained it. He landed it on the bar and was just about to call for another when the door to the pub pushed open, and a gust of icy air hit the back of his neck. He turned his buzzed grin in that direction, and what he saw just about stopped his heart.

A woman in a long red coat, with beautiful dark skin and rosy cheeks, stood in the doorway, laughing as the light from the bar glinted off of her silver earrings. She had her hair piled on top of her head in a fancy twist, and he could see the shimmer of sequins from her dress peeking out from the buttons that were open at her chest. She was dressed far too spectacularly for the dingy bar, but her gleaming smile and sparkling eyes fit right in. She was a vision.

In a few long strides she was beside him, her elbows on the bar, waving down the barkeep. "Something other than eggnog, Dale," she said, when he immediately turned his attention her way.

"Did you have a show tonight?" the bar man asked, while he poured her something dark and frothy.

She smiled around her first sip. "Hotel bar. Too fancy for my taste."

"What do you do?" Rick asked, before he could stop himself.

Her head turned in his direction and she looked him up and down with an amused tolerance. "I'm a singer," she said proudly. "Friday through Sunday. Cocktail waitress the rest of the time. I'm hoping one day I'll only need one answer to that question."

Rick nodded. "I know you will." They'd only just met, but he was sure of it.

"Are you a cop or a stripper?"

"What?" A laugh burst from his chest. She looked serious though, as she gestured to his uniform. "I'm a cop."

"Too bad," she said. "I was hoping for a dance. Now I don't know if you can keep up."

"Oh, I can keep up."

She shrugged off her coat and took another swig of her drink, then set them both on the bar. "Let's go then."

Rick pinched his thigh to make sure he wasn't dreaming, then captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. "Let's go," he said, dropping a kiss on her knuckles.

They pushed through the crowd and found a space on the floor just big enough to stand pressed together. He was still holding onto her hand, and as the band played another song, he spun her around in front of him, watching the sequins on her dress wink at him as they hit the light. Before he knew it, she had her arm hooked through his and was teaching him when to clap and stomp and yell with the crowd.

"What's your name?" Rick called over the cheers and tambourine bells.

"Michonne."

"I'm Rick."

She spun again under his arm and came to a soft landing against his chest, looking up at him with a happy smile. "Nice to meet you, Rick."

By the time the lead singer paused, and with a thick Irish brogue, announced that they would take a quick intermission, both of their foreheads where shining from the dance and the booze.

The crowd whined out a protest, but the band filed off the stage anyway with a promise to be back. The house speakers quickly took over and Frank Sinatra's Jingle Bells filled the air. The drunken crowd didn't miss a beat, linking arms and bellowing out the carol.

Michonne turned to him, her eyes dancing merrily. "Let's get some air."

He followed eagerly, the crowd and his buzz working in tandem to begin to overheat his body in his stiff polyester uniform. Her hand slid down his arm and into his as she pulled him through the mass of people, and he used his other to undo the button on his collar. He immediately regretted the decision when they reached the door and she pushed it open, a wall of frigid Northeastern air smacking him in the face as they stepped out into the night. Specks of snow were forming in mid-air, catching the steady breeze from the harbor, and dancing around as enthusiastically as the patrons inside the warm bar.

"I haven't gotten used to this yet," he said as he shoved his free hand in his pocket, tightening his fingers to make sure she didn't let go of the one she was holding. He changed his mind though, when he realized he was the only one wearing a jacket. He separated from her and shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto her shoulders. The garment dwarfed her and he was struck by how neatly she walked the line between stunning and adorable. It was an enchanting combination, like watching one of those optical illusions transform from one picture to another before your eyes.

"You might not ever get used to it," she said, pulling his coat a little tighter. "Where are you from?"

"Georgia."

"Long way from home."

"It is."

"And where is it you're going, Rick?" she pranced a few steps ahead and tossed the question over her shoulder at him. "That's the real question." She smiled and in that moment he could see a lifetime of following after her and being thankful for the opportunity.

"I wasn't sure until right now, but I think the answer is wherever you are."

"Well that's good to hear, because I'm going somewhere big. I have dreams that are bigger than this place and nothing is going to stop me."

He caught up to her and snatched her hand again. "I believe you."

The chanting from the bar was fading as they walked, and a different kind of music began to float around them on the air. When they reached the corner, they saw a stone church across the street, its doors open, soft candle light and the sound of the choir pouring onto the street.

She tightened her grip on his hand. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

She was standing under a street lamp decked with holly and big silver bells, her head tipped toward him and bathed in the soft yellow light. The snow was landing in her hair.

He leaned in and cupped her chin. When their lips met, the bells from the church peeled out, echoing down the streets.

He pulled away and she laughed, merry and bright. "It's Christmas Day!"

The bells kept chiming and all of the bar doors on the street flew open, drunken strangers hugging and singing Silent Night off key. "Happy Christmas, Michonne."

"Happy Christmas, Rick."

 _Present day_

"So what happened?" the old man asked.

"I married her."

"Jesus, man." He made an impatient rolling motion with his hand. "Get to the part where you're drinking an old man's booze at quarter to midnight on this December twenty-fourth."

Rick picked up the bottle of whiskey and took another chug before he answered. The truth was he didn't know how they got to this place. The way anyone did, he supposed. Life gets in the way of dreams. Instead of wearing sequins and singing to a crowd, she'd bought a house with him and had his baby. She blamed him. They were living his fairytale, not hers, but he'd never given up on her.

"I took her dreams away," he said, swallowing down the fire. "Simple as that."

"And where is she right now?"

"At her mother's house with our son."

The old man looked at his watch, then to the sky. "You take a good look at me, son," he said, swaying a bit with his words. "You look hard and long. Now you look at yourself with that bottle in your hand. Only one of us here who's outta time."

Rick nodded, feeling a burning in his chest that had little to do with the alcohol. The music was still calling to him from a few doors down, a warm memory of happier, easier times. The old man was right, though. He wasn't supposed to be out here right now, and he wasn't out of time. He passed the bottle back and stood, stomping off the snow that had accumulated on his boots. "Thank you," he said. He fished his wallet out of his pocket and thumbed a couple of twenties, tossing them into the metal cup. "Get something to eat."

"You're a good man, officer."

Rick nodded and turned in the direction he came from. He'd go home, sleep this off, and maybe tomorrow would look a little different. Just then, the bells from the old church began to ring out, piercing the fierce weather with their joyful clangs. It was Christmas morning.

Just like they had those years ago, the bars began to spill, and the sound of the bells was soon drowned out by drunken slurred lyrics and off-key caroling. He lifted his face to the sky, expecting to feel the pinpricks of ice against his skin, but instead, lazy, fat snowflakes settled in his lashes and on his cheeks.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, clutching it in his hand as he kept walking toward that lamp post on the corner. The one where he had kissed his wife for the first time, and the choir had sang, and the snow had fallen in her hair.

When he reached the spot, he dialed her number. It was late and she was probably sleeping. Their son would be up in a few hours, but the Christmas bells were ringing and he couldn't let the moment pass without her.

Her voicemail picked up as he expected.

"Michonne, it's me. Listen, I know things are tough right now, but I just… I think we should try. I've got a feeling about this year, Michonne. The bells are ringing from that church on the corner, and the drunks are all singing that song like they were that night, and well, I'm standing under this lamp and all of a sudden I can just see a better time for us. The way it used to be. Happy Christmas, Michonne. I love you, baby."

He hung up, pushing the phone into his coat pocket, and stuck his hand out to hail a cab.

As the snow-covered car pulled up to the curb, the door opened and a flash of red caught his eye.

"Michonne?"

"Hi, Rick," she said, stepping onto the cobblestoned sidewalk. She was in her pajamas with that fancy red coat tied at her waist.

"Where's R.J.?"

"With my mother. I knew you'd be here."

"This can't be it for us," he said, stepping closer.

"Rick…"

"No, listen Michonne. I know you feel like you gave up so much for us, but your dreams aren't over. I won't let them be. I've kept them with me all this time." He tapped his chest with his fist. "I've kept them right here. With my own."

"That's what I came to tell you, Rick. Spending this Christmas without you, seeing our son take it all in, all the beauty that we used to see? I know now that no one can make it alone. You didn't take my dreams from me. You added to them. This…us…our family… " She wiped at her eyes and he pulled her into his arms. "This is my fairytale too. Happy Christmas, Rick."

" _For it fills the air with a perfume rare, and betwixt both me and you…"_

The crowd was filling in around them now strolling toward the corner to spill into the street.

She grabbed his coat and pulled him down to her mouth, kissing him under the streetlamp on the corner.

"They're singing our song," he said, wrapping a hand around her waist.

She raised an eyebrow at him, fighting a grin. "This song is about moonshine."

"Whatever." He took her hand and spun her around in the snow, laughing.

"Let's go home," she said, laughing.

"This year's for me and you, Michonne. All our dreams are going to come true."

"They already have."


End file.
